LOST ON YOU

16

"Fuck off man!" I exclaimed as I watched the ball soar just over the bar after my shot.

It was the 84th minute, and we were ahead against Chelsea, but only by a narrow margin of 3:2. They were relentless in their push.

Moments later, I saw the gaffer signalling for me to come off. Man, this bald dude was really taking me out of the game.

Running a hand through my hair, I sighed and made my way to the bench, wiping the sweat from my forehead with my shirt.

As I reached the sideline, I shook hands with Mason, who was coming on for me, and then with the manager.

"Why'd you sub me?" I questioned.

He gestured to the bench. "Take a seat."

"Come on, just tell me," I persisted.

"Because I'm the manager, and I call the shots for this team," he replied, his attention back on the game.

I rolled my eyes but complied, sinking onto the bench with a frustrated huff. It wasn't the first time I'd clashed with the manager over his decisions, and it probably wouldn't be the last.

From the sidelines, I watched anxiously as Mason entered the fray, hoping he could hold the line against Chelsea's relentless attack. But deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling of frustration at being sidelined when the game was still in the balance.

All seemed well until it all went sideways... Added time turned into a nightmare when Cole Palmer scored a penalty, levelling the game at 3:3.

As the game resumed, Chelsea swiftly took possession and scored again? Bloody hell, how do we concede two goals in just one minute...

I shot up from my seat, turning to the manager who looked more disappointed than angry. He should be furious.

"What the hell was that?" I exclaimed, kicking a water bottle that lay on the ground.

"Beckham! Sit down!" Ten Hag barked.

I remained standing, my frustration boiling over. "No way! This is unacceptable!" I protested, ignoring Ten Hag's command.

But before I could say anything else, the final whistle blew. The match ended in a disappointing 3:3 draw. I clenched my fists, trying to contain my frustration as I watched the players trudge off the pitch.

Ten Hag shot me a stern look, gesturing for me to sit down. Reluctantly, I complied, sinking back onto the bench with a heavy sigh.

I rose from the bench again and stepped onto the pitch, bypassing the customary handshake with the opposing team. Instead, I headed straight for the fans, eager to express my apologies for the disappointing performance they had just witnessed.

I directed my attention towards the fans. With a solemn nod and a hand over my heart, I conveyed my sincere apologies for the disappointing performance they had just witnessed.

The intensity in my gaze spoke volumes, reflecting my determination to make things right and repay their unwavering support with victories to come.

After that, I noticed a physio signaling for me to come over, which piqued my interest.

"Hey, you've got six sprints, full pitch, at 70% pace," he informed me, giving me a reassuring pat on the back.